


Grounds for Divorce

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, complete and total lack of anything even resembling angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy jabs a finger at the carry-on in Adam's hand. "Drop it, fucker."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounds for Divorce

Tommy jabs a finger at the carry-on in Adam's hand. "Drop it, fucker."

Eyes wide, Adam sets the case carefully down. Asshole doesn't even have the decency to look guilty about sneaking off, like Tommy's going to buy this shock-confusion thing he's trying to pull. He gets as far as, "Tommy," before his back hits the door and the rest of whatever the hell he was trying to say explodes in a puff of hot breath against Tommy's mouth. For two and a half fucking fantastic seconds Adam's knocked for a total loop, mouth slack and open to the push of Tommy's tongue, and then his hand's tangling in the early morning mess of Tommy's hair. The sky outside is bright with the crack of dawn and Tommy is more than happy to let Adam take over--now that his point's really fucking made, thanks--and his body's finally catching up with his brain, reminding him that hey, _it is the crack of fucking dawn_.

Adam's hand slides down the back of his neck, fingertips digging gently into muscle. Tommy grunts something that kinda sounds like, "Murph," and falls out of the kiss, forehead landing on Adam's shoulder. Except for the arm Adam has around him, holding him up, he'd already be on his knees. Dawn is an asshole time of day. Paired with Adam's warmth and the supremely fucking talented fingers kneading at his shoulder, he's ready to crawl right back into bed. And drag Adam with him.

Instead he digs a glare up out of the sleepy contentment trying to horn in on the wrath of the scorned thing he's got going here. "Asshole."

"Nuh-uh," Adam counters, "I totally woke you up to say goodbye. I even kissed your dirty mouth after you cussed me out."

Squeezing his eyes shut against the cheerily encroaching sunshine, Tommy shuffles through the cobwebs of his memory. Mornings are so much fucking easier to deal with from the other side. He'd been so primed for an all-nighter. Motherfuck it, he'd brought _supplies_.

"Okay," Adam is saying, sounding a hell of a long way away, China or East Mongolia or something, and he if expects Tommy to catch a single word he's going to have to quit scratching his nails up through Tommy's hair like that, "more impressed than pissed. I had no idea you could make out like that half-asleep. Maybe next time I'll fuck you g'bye instead."

"Fucker," Tommy says again, vehemently, only it comes out lazy and contented. Adam's a braver man than most. Tommy wouldn't even think about risking his junk on a hazy blowjob dream morphing into a burrito binge. Heaving himself upright on a hefty sigh, he gives Adam's crotch a friendly little pat. "Bite it off 'cept I'd miss it."

"All those sweet things you say," Adam says, fake-dreamy and halfway to singsong in a vaguely familiar tune. "How can I tear myself away?"

"I'm gonna eat tacos in your bed." Scooping up Adam's carry-on, Tommy holds it out. "Watch lesbian porn on your big screen. Jack off in your kitchen sink."

"Raid my closet," Adam says, bypassing the case to tug on the hem of Tommy's too-long tee. Last night it'd still been Adam's. "It's killing me that I gotta go. You look so fucking cute."

Tommy says, "Rockstar," and shoves the carry-on into Adam's arms before he gives in to the urge to hop back in them instead. "Go be awesome somewhere." The image is stuck in his head now, though, and all he can think is how Adam's mouth would tumble into a wide smile, those big hands slapping to his ass to hold him up, dick waking up to say hello nestled right up against his.

Adam's, "One more," barely makes it through that happy daydream, and then Adam's mouth is back on his, soft and sweet for the first touch before it sinks deeper, becomes more like the start of something really fucking stellar. Adam's hand cups his jaw, pulling him into it and holding him there, thumb chasing after the flick of tongue near the corner of his lips. He's seriously considering throwing the fucking carry-on out the motherfucking window when Adam's hand skids down to his throat, holding him off as the kiss breaks. "Finish that when I get back."

"Fucker," Tommy mutters, just one last time, and goes against the pressure to dart in, skim Adam's mouth with his. It doesn't do a damn thing to kill that urge to jump Adam right there in the front hall.

*

Curled up on Adam's big couch, _The Wolfman_ queued up and the last of a Jack and coke mellowing his bones enough for him to give the remake a shot, Tommy's feeling pretty okay. His phone's on the ridiculously asymmetrical coffee table, ready and waiting. The three hour time difference between them hadn't seemed so much like a huge deal this morning. Now it's a fucking eternity and he'd shoot Adam a text except then he'd be the whiny clingy boyfriend and not the awesome piece of ass Adam had better be fucking pining after while he's up there blazing swaths of glitter through Queen St West.

Twenty minutes into the movie he realises he's not really watching it at all. His mind's two thousand miles away, cosied up snug against thoughts of Adam. And that right there is the most girly shit he's ever had go through his head. But it doesn't change the fact that he's sitting by the phone waiting for it to fucking ring already.

Snatching it up, he snuggles deeper into the cushions, one hand tucked under his cheek, camera aimed. He takes a test shot with his eyes closed and it turns out better than he figured, soft and a little sexy with that quirk to his lips--exactly the kind of thing to get Adam going. He types a quick string of z's and sends it off. It takes a whole man-to-wolf transformation scene for him to start feeling ridiculous about it, and by then it's too late anyway. It's not even like it matters. One of the best things about Adam is that even when he's giving you a look like you're the weirdest creature to ever crawl out of the primordial muck, he's still loving you the whole time.

Fuck, he is not letting Adam go anywhere without him ever again. His balls are going to shrivel up from this sudden and shameful lack of anything even remotely resembling testosterone.

He makes it another fifteen minutes for ridiculous to switch over to antsy. He'd been almost looking forward to this long-distance thing, visions of greyscale Hollywood longing dancing through his head with an occasional pornographic Technicolor intermission. The reality of it sucks ass.

When the phone finally rings, he almost drops the fucking thing fumbling for it. He doesn't even check the caller ID before smashing it to his ear and, "Hey, hi, Adam, hey," comes pouring out of him, words all tangled up together in an awkward rush. Clearing his throat, he makes a last ditch effort for smooth, or at least a little less like he's been sitting on the phone all fucking night. "Yo."

"Aw, baby," Adam says, caught halfway through a laugh. "I _know_ you weren't sleeping."

Hitting mute and rolling over onto his back, Tommy says, "Porn." He flicks a sideways glance at the screen. Not _actual_ porn, but still gratuitous. It's got nudity and excessive bodily fluids, anyway.

"That's not your porn voice. _Saw_ or _Nightmare on Elm Street_?"

Biting back an honest answer, Tommy blurts the real question here. He'll deal with Adam knowing his go-to movies for crash night later. "Porn voice, the fuck?"

"You heard me," Adam says, the crooked slant to his smile colouring his tone. "I know what you sound like when you're jacking off, sweetheart. You are so not right now."

Tommy gropes blindly for the remote. This is starting to sound a hell of a lot better than television. "Yeah, and?"

Silence for half a century (two seconds according to the time on his phone), and then, "Do you want me to talk dirty to you, Tommy Joe?" purrs across the line, dark and low and tweaking the nerves all down his spine.

Jabbing a thumbnail between his teeth so he doesn't bite through his fucking lip, Tommy takes the moment his heart needs to force some of the blood that'd rushed south back up to his brain to come up with an answer. The best he's got is a pathetic, painful truth. "Wouldn't take much for you to talk me off now."

"Is that so." Impish delight radiates from the phone. "I'll take that as a compliment, not proof that you really do have high def plastic tits splashed all over my television."

Tits are pretty fucking awesome, it's true, but that is so not what's on Tommy's mind right now. "Maybe I found your, like, _Plantin' Seed_ director's cut or something."

More silence, this time unreadable. The heat creeping up the back of Tommy's neck turns to a flashfire rush when Adam says, laughing and a little incredulous, "Not in my collection, you didn't."

"You're all about the twinks, huh."

"Jerk off in front of a mirror and that's everything I've got, only not half as hot." The background noise on the other end peaks. Adam turns away from the phone for a second, talking to somebody Tommy can't hear. "I'm sorry, baby, I gotta go."

It is so not Tommy's fault his, "You're not done yet?" comes out plaintive. Sex, goddammit. He would like some.

A sigh, then another burst of sound. Adam snaps at someone, quick and vulgar, and an apology tumbles out right on its heels. Tommy gnaws on the inside of his lip during the hush. It takes a while for Adam to get back this time, and when he does his voice weighs a fucking ton. "Not even fucking close. Go on to bed, okay? Tell me tomorrow what you like."

Tommy squints at the ceiling. Did Adam just seriously tell him to go root through the porn stash and pick out phonesex fodder? "Did you-"

But Adam's already in the middle of goodbye, "Sleep good, baby," and, "Don't forget to turn off the alarm," over a chaotic jumble of voices as Adam leaves whatever sanctuary he'd managed to find. Tommy barely gets a word in through it all, and okay, he's used to that, but it's pretty fucking different being stuck here alone instead of being swept along by Adam's side. The silence afterward settles in heavily, everything muffled like sinking beneath the surface of the ocean.

He flicks on the television and goes back to not watching a fucking thing.

*

Morning happens way too soon. Tommy's smack in the middle of a really awesome dream--details are fuzzy but his dick's totally enjoying it--when Adam's motherfucking alarm starts blaring scratchy 60's show tunes. He clambers across the seventeen quagmire miles of pillows, blankets, and duvet to randomly smash buttons until it shuts up, then flops back with a relieved sigh. There is no fucking way he's leaving the comfort of his nest to go run laps in the back yard or make protein shakes from scratch or whatever the hell it is Adam gets up so god damn early for.

Hazy half-waking dreams of Adam's morning wood putting a smile on his face, he's primed to sink straight into sleep when the alarm jolts him awake again with all the vengeance of a diva scorned. He flails in the direction of the power cord, his triumphant shout cut short when yanking it out of the wall doesn't bring sweet silence. Fucking battery backups. It takes him three tries to hit the kill switch instead of snooze, and by then it's too late. Perching on the edge of the bed, arm raised like the blade of a guillotine, he watches the minutes tick slowly by like a fucking hawk. The second it clicks back on he punches terminate, falling back into bed with victory arms raised.

And now he's wide fucking awake anyway. He flips the fucker off and grudgingly drags his ass into the bathroom, groping for his phone from the dresser. On the way he texts Adam, _ >:| Fucking alarm._

Before he makes it into the shower, Adam replies, _Morning, baby! :)_

"Fuck you," Tommy grumbles, and thinks viciously about how sorry Adam would be if he fell asleep in there and drowned.

He manages to make it unscathed through that whole ordeal. The tantalising smell of freshly brewed coffee greets him when he crawls out, and sure it's a figment of his incredibly talented imagination, he pads naked and wet and completely disbelieving through to the kitchen where there sits a glorious pot of black liquid gold. He pledges his firstborn or his left nut to Adam for somehow being magical enough to make him coffee while in another country, and grabs up the mug sitting ready beside it, filling it to the brim. He scalds his tongue on the first sip and it's wonderful, fucking amazing, he is so going to suck Adam's brains out through his cock when he gets back.

Glancing down at his phone sitting totally innocently on the counter, he says, "Huh." He so doesn't remember dragging that out here with him like a fucking security blanket. Picking it up anyway, he tells Adam, _I'mma blow you later, 'k?_

There's no quick response this time. With his homicidal urges banked by caffeine, there's room for surprise that Adam texted back so fast before. Cradling his coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, he shuffles on back to the bedroom to dig something clean to wear out of his duffel. He makes it into his shorts before the tiny crack of the closet door catches his eye.

The inside of Adam's closet is a runway version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. One side is jeans, tees, classic cut suits. The other is sparkle and spikes, leather, latex, lace. Most days Adam is a little column A, a little column B, wearing who he is right out there for everybody to see. He's been that way for as long as Tommy's known his name, right from the first day Tommy warily tuned in to _American Idol_ to find out for himself what the fuck had turned his cousin into a crazed and raving lunatic. Every now and then, kinda like right now, Tommy gets hit with this weird wistful urge to have known Adam before all of that.

Shrugging it off, he fingers a loop of chains dangling from the sleeve of one of the jackets. Going with the urge to tug it off the hanger he hauls it on, the silk lining cool against bare skin. It's a tossup between ridiculous and really fucking hot when he checks himself out in the mirror. It's too big in the shoulders, hits him way too low on the thighs, and he kinda looks like a Central Park flasher. But the smell of Adam's skin is sunk into the leather, and now he doesn't want to take it off.

 _Stealing ur clothes,_ he texts to Adam.

After a handful of seconds with no response, he puts the jacket back. The front of another brushes his arm, though, and he takes it out, sizes it up, has it on before he even realises that's his plan. This one's some kind of mix of cotton and wool, somehow heavier than the other full leather one, and long. Really fucking long. This time when he checks it out he decides it needs a pair of stripper heels. On Adam it looks fucking awesome. On him it looks like he's wearing the rockglam version of bondage dominatrix does Wall Street.

Then his phone bleeps out Adam's, _Oh yeah?_

See, now he's got to stop and think about this, because that almost sounds like a challenge. A dare. A demand for proof. It's probably neither of these things. But he's striding on up to the mirror anyway, hip cocked and camera aimed, a bare line of leg showing from thigh to toe, another flash of skin at his collarbone. He gives a brief moment's thought to how this would look with dark eyes and red lips, but with his hair slicked back and face bare, he's rockin' this Matrix a la Trinity thing. Hiking up an eyebrow--kind of an _oh yeah_ right back at ya--he snaps the picture.

Less than a heartbeat after he hits send, Adam's ringtone blares. He barely gets the phone to his ear in time to hear Adam say, rough and like he's in some serious fucking trouble if the answer's no, "Tell me you're still wearing it."

Tommy winks at the mirror. "You so love that shit."

"You're trying to kill me. Ujala forgot how to talk when she saw you."

Heat prickles at the back of Tommy's neck. He closes his eyes so he can't see his reflection flush. "Interviewer?"

"Yeah," Adam says, his smug satisfaction creeping across the airwaves. "It turns you on when I show you off. I should dress you up, take you out."

"Dress me up, keep me in," Tommy counters, not even fucking thinking about it. He trails a hand along the neat line of Adam's clothes. "You got some drag in here, wanna put me in a skirt? Make me pretty then mess me up?"

Adam hums deep in his throat, soft and considering. "Sounds like it's what _you_ want."

Tommy's pulse kicks it up a notch. Eyeballing the rumpled bed, he wets dry lips. "I want lots of shit, doesn't mean I'm gonna get it."

"So tell me what you want, Tommy Joe," Adam says, his voice a silky slither of sin straight down Tommy's spine.

 _Everything,_ gets caught where Tommy's teeth dig into his lip, syllables all jumbled up on his tongue and backing up his throat. Shit like that doesn't fly with Adam. He's got to have details, an actual fucking answer, but it's true. Tommy wants things from Adam he doesn't have fucking words for. Things he's not even sure exist, but wants Adam to show him. He's a warm-blooded male, does a lot of his thinking with his dick, and it has, "I wanna fuck you again," spilling out of his mouth before he gets a chance to check in with his brain.

Adam's low laugh brings out a wave of goosebumps all along Tommy's arms. "I know you do."

"Yeah," Tommy says, "yeah, but not like, not like just fucking you, okay?" He scrubs the back of his wrist across his mouth, trying to get what's in his head out there in actual fucking coherent sentences. "I wanna do it the way you were gonna before you fucking blew my brains out the back of my skull. Hold me down and _make_ me fuck you."

There's a quiet rustle from Adam's side, a slow, hitching breath. "Just thinking about it gets you hard."

"Fuck, yes," Tommy groans, knees buckling slightly when he finally gets a hand on his cock, like he needed Adam's permission or something before he could even fucking consider it, let alone do it. "Jerk off thinking about it." What Adam would do, pin his wrists or maybe even fucking cuff them. Control him all the way, in every way, even though Adam's the one on his cock this time around.

"Is that what you want to do right now?" Adam asks, still in that quiet voice, bleeding sex all over the fucking planet through one shitty little cell connection. "You want to get off hearing all about how I'd let you get your cock into me and then I'd make you wait, make you kiss me until your lips bruised before I'd let you move. And you'd be dying to fuck me, Tommy, you'd ache for it, but you'd wait. Because I told you to."

Whatever the hell it is that comes out of Tommy's mouth right then, it sure as fuck isn't English. He knows what he meant, and he's pretty sure Adam totally heard the, _Yes, fuck, please,_ that it was supposed to be, but he's either losing his fucking mind or there's some whacked out shit going on with the airwaves because the next thing he thinks he hears Adam say is, "Stop."

It takes everything Tommy's got to grunt, "What?"

"You heard me. Get that hand off your dick right now."

Again, the noise Tommy makes isn't even close to English, and there's nothing so nice as a please in there anywhere. "Fucking kidding me."

"You're going to wait," Adam says, and this time there's an edge to it, back-alley threat. It does completely inexplicable and totally amazing things to Tommy's insides.

"H-how long?" Tommy asks, and chews on the inside of his lip, pretending straight to hell and back his voice didn't just crack like he's taking puberty for a trip down memory lane. He hadn't even really gotten around to anything yet, just rubbing his cock through his shorts for a preview to the main event, and he's really pretty sure Adam could get him open-mouthed and on his knees with the word _go_.

"Until I don't want you to wait anymore," Adam says, the fucking masochistic asshole. "Be good for me, baby."

"I," Tommy squeaks, because this is not happening, _this is so not happening_ , and Adam laughs, slinky and delighted, before a gaping black pit of silence opens up on the line. Yanking the phone away from his ear, Tommy stares down at it. It helpfully tells him, _Call Ended, 00:12:14_.

Mother _fucker_.

*

That night, at half past midnight, Tommy is standing over the kitchen sink eating take-out tacos feeling pretty fucking grumpy with the entire cosmos. Okay, so, he's got no problems with Adam going all toppy dom bitch on his ass--kinda loves it, really--but it had not to date given him any indication whatsoever that blueballs were going to be part of the package. Who the fuck would believe Adam, _fucking Adam_ , would cockblock a guy for shits and giggles?

So not cool.

He chomps viciously through the last bite of his innocent, unsuspecting dinner. He's still chewing when his phone beeps and he fixes it with a smouldering death glare, daring it to ring, just fucking _try it_.

It doesn't, though, and he picks it up warily to read Adam's smarmy asshole text. _Behaving yourself?_

 _Yes. >:O_ he types back, and narrows his eyes at it before hitting send. Too cute. Backspacing, he replaces it with, _Fuck you._ He doesn't even feel guilty about it.

Adam's reply is still a really fucking annoying, _Mmm, good boy._

Leaving his mess spread out all over the counter, Tommy stomps back to the den. He gives the phone a good pitch onto the couch and goes straight for Adam's fucking Dewey Decimal organised porn collection. He hauls down a few dozen cases, dropping them in a haphazard pile on the floor to flick through. He is going to have the mother of all wank sessions right there on Adam's stupid oversized couch.

But the more he looks through them, the less appealing it sounds. There are some hot guys in the mainstream stuff, a couple amateur ones that kinda sound like they've got some story in there, and one with a twink on the cover that actually is like looking into a fucking mirror. He is so not horny enough for this. Frustrated, yes, horny, no. And now he _does_ feel a little guilty. There's this terrible little sick lump in his belly where his stomach, happily full of delicious beef, used to be.

Disgusted, he leaves the porn in a jumble and just goes to fucking bed. And he _still_ takes the damn phone with him.

*

Waiting at Arrivals the following morning, Tommy wonders yet again what the hell he thinks he's doing. Two hours ago it'd seemed like an awesome idea. He's still feeling a little like a shit over last night, which he so doesn't want to analyse because it probably won't make any sort of useful sense. But anyway, yeah, this awesome idea, the one where he'd tumble-jumped out of bed to call up Adam's service and tell them that no, Mr. Lambert did not need a pickup from LAX at noon. Now he's not so sure about it. For all he knows, Adam has a string of appearances to deal with before he gets to go home.

It's too late. He's here and Adam's right over there, filtering out through the VIP exit with a guy about half the size of a football field at his shoulder. There's another one a few feet behind lugging a suitcase that looks the size of a grapefruit in his huge hands. Encouraging his balls to please not crawl up into his throat, Tommy heads straight for them, hoping he appears as tiny and non-threatening as he feels.

The big guy by Adam zeros in on him like he's got a radar installed in his giant-ass skull. Like a bull, the guy's nostrils flare, an extra large ring of white showing around his pupils, and Tommy has one very vivid image of being trampled flat as a punk pancake before Adam calls, "Tommy!"

Tommy extracts his balls from his teeth as the security guy dials it back down to vaguely homicidal, and then all he can see is Adam's smile, big and wide and eyes fucking glittering all on their own. Adam's hug almost knocks him off his feet. It's not like a tackle rush or anything, but it's a full body deal, enveloped in Adam's arms, pressed in tight and breathing in the faint traces of recycled air clinging to Adam's familiar warmth. He hugs back as hard as he can.

"Thanks guys," Adam says, taking back his luggage. It magically grows seven sizes as it changes hands. "My ride's here."

The two security dudes stare doubtfully down at Tommy. They were probably minotaurs in a former life. Tommy says, "It's cool, I got him."

They exchange more dubious looks, and when Adam sweeps around to head out, over-sharing his pain about what was supposed to be the in-flight meal but in actuality appeared to be some sort of tortured alien species, Tommy spies them trailing along at a discreet distance. He can't really blame them. He's having enough trouble subtly steering Adam in the direction of the car. Beating off rabid fans isn't really in his repertoire of social skills.

At the car, luggage stowed, Adam says, "Gonna drive me home?"

Tommy tosses the keys from hand to hand. "That's the plan, yeah."

"Beautiful," Adam says, and settles into the passenger's seat, long legs all splayed out and head tilted back, eyes closed behind his mirrored lenses. "My boyfriend is so much more than an incredibly pretty face."

Tommy's insides do a bizarre little shimmy as he cranks the engine. That right there is one of those things he doesn't think about. Acknowledges, understands, but he doesn't do labels (not in a snobbish way, either, just in a oops-forgot-to-think-about-that one). Sometimes he's really got to wonder what is wrong with his head when simply stated truths sneak up on him like that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Adam turn to face him. He's busy waiting for a break in traffic, though, and totally misses Adam's arm move until a couple fingers slide down the back of the hand he's got on the gearshift. It's slow and sensual, suggestive, and holy fuck, he's missed Adam way too fucking much to be healthy. "Please do not make me total your car with you in it."

"That would suck," Adam says with a tiny little smile, and lets his hand slide slowly away.

It's back by the time they hit the freeway. There's traffic--there's always fucking traffic--but not so much that Tommy won't risk taking his hand off the shift to turn it palm up. Adam's fingers lace with his as smoothly as the tumblers in a lock clicking into place. It's the best fucking high ever.

"I could fall asleep right here," Adam murmurs, thumb twitching against Tommy's.

"Go for it."

Adam says, "Yeah?" hazy and happy, weirdly like he can't believe he's allowed to take a fucking nap if he wants.

"Yeah," Tommy says, and really kinda hates when he has to take his hand back to downshift.

*

Adam blinks awake while Tommy's digging his luggage out of the trunk. He shuffles out of the car a hot sleepy mess of tousled hair, smudged eyeliner and wrinkled clothes. Tommy stares at him for a long minute, brain chug-chugging along, and then he abandons the luggage in favour of sliding his arms around Adam's waist beneath his jacket, face tilted up for a kiss he definitely wants more than oxygen.

"Hey, baby," Adam says, the backs of his knuckles skimming down Tommy's jaw. Yeah, he's still fuzzy around the edges, but he fucking knows what Tommy wants.

"C'mon," Tommy says, tightening his fingers in the back of Adam's shirt. " _C'mon._ "

Adam's still smiling, but there's something heavier behind it. Uncertain, and fuck, that isn't a look Tommy's used to seeing on his face. "Thought you were pissed at me."

Entirely without his permission, the side of Tommy's face screws up. Which isn't really an answer, yet kinda is. "It's different when you're not here," is the best his got in the way of words, and that probably doesn't help at all.

Except, Adam gets it. He sure as fucking hell _looks_ like he gets it, which is all kinds of amazing when Tommy isn't so sure he gets it himself. "Gonna be okay for awhile longer now?" Adam asks, soft in that way where he really means it, like it means more than the words he's saying.

Tommy rolls his eyes. This is all kinds of crazy and ridiculous and fuck it, _yes_ , now that Adam's here, he's fine. What kind of Disney shit is this.

Ducking down, Adam gives him a tiny peck on the mouth. Tommy blinks up at him, floored. That is not the kind of kiss he's been waiting three fucking days for. It just fucking _isn't_. But Adam's already on the move, snagging his suitcase by the handle and dragging it through to the main part of the house.

Muttering, "Fuck," under his breath, Tommy slams the passenger side door shut and follows. He should've said no. Not that he even fucking said anything, but Adam, fucking Adam just _knows_.

By the time Tommy makes it to the bedroom, the blinds are closed and the shower's running. He seriously considers climbing right in there after Adam, but Adam said wait. It might kill him, but he can fucking wait. He tugs the half-open suitcase off the bed, straightens up the sheets, and leaves the door open a crack behind him when he leaves.

Cleaning up the porn explosion in the den doesn't take long. Neither does tidying up the mess of old taco wrappers in the kitchen. Everything's all quiet in the bedroom, and Tommy resists the urge to go check on Adam. He's just antsy, unsettled in his own skin. And he is so racking up good boyfriend points with this waiting shit.

Nabbing the lone bottle of completely normal water from the fridge, he heads upstairs to the guest rooms. As much as he'd like to flop into bed beside Adam, he's not really all that tired. A shower, though, a shower is an awesome fucking idea, right up until he's in there with soap suds slicking his skin and his dick waving hello. It's not like Adam would _know_ in a freaky psychic way if he whacked off. It's not even that he's a total failure at a little white lie every now and then. But jaw set, he finishes up as fast as he can, jumping out of the steam and into a giant fluffy towel, wrapping it around his hips like out of sight, out of mind is actually going to fucking work here. As if that shit _ever_ works.

Except now he's naked and cold and the last thing he wants to haul on are yesterday's grungy clothes. Giving his hair a good scrub dry, he creeps carefully down the stairs to Adam's bedroom, like somehow his intentions will disturb Adam where all the noise he made while tidying up didn't. A gentle push on the door gets it wide enough for him to slip silently in, and for a long moment he stands there in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When they do, all he ends up doing is staring at the shadow of Adam on the bed, long and dark on the fluffy white sheets, sprawling limbs taking up more space than physically possible, damp feather of hair hiding his eyes. It takes Tommy a good while to get the message from brain to feet, but he finally grabs up his duffel and slips into the bathroom, making sure the door is closed tight before flicking on the soft lights above the sink.

He hauls on an old concert tee that he thinks used to be Mia's with a worn pair of jeans, and combs the bird's nest out of his hair. A minute ago the plan had stopped there, but now that he's here, he figures fuck it, why not, and roots through Adam's makeup case sitting on the counter. Tommy's got the basics, things he wore before getting swept up in the cloud of glitter that followed Adam across the globe, but Adam's got the rich dark jewel tones, blues and greens and purples, shimmering silvers and golds. Ignoring the urge to randomly pick a colour and go for it, he plays with the darkest greens, kinda like a forest at midnight. That idea lodges in his head and he adds in some black for shadows, a light dust of silver at the corners for moonlight, and he wasn't thinking too much about Adam when he started this but now he sure as hell is. He digs out a plain pinkish lipgloss to finish. It looks fucking _awesome_ , especially with the tiny wave in his hair from letting it dry on its own.

He opens the door a crack, mutters a quick, "Fuck," under his breath for forgetting the light, but when he goes to flick it off Adam's sleep-heavy voice telling him to leave it on stops him in his tracks. "Sorry."

As soft as the rustling sheets, Adam says, "You were in there forever. C'mere."

Tommy knows outside it's a bright sunny afternoon, but in here it feels like a late-night hush, dream-like and vague. Moving to kneel on the edge of the bed, he wants it to stay just like this for the rest of the day, the two of them caught in that weird place between sleep and waking, nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one else. He crawls halfway over Adam, one hand pressed into the pillow beside Adam's head and the other lost in the sheets, his gaze on the soft hazy curve of Adam's smile. "Am I done waiting now?"

Adam drags in a slow breath. His thumb traces the edge of Tommy's bottom lip. "Maybe."

Hit with the epically strong urge to bite the fucking thing off, Tommy goes as far as letting his mouth fall softly open. He deserves a fucking medal for this shit. Adam's fingers curl beneath his chin, thumb smearing his lipgloss as it slides in to press against his teeth, pull his mouth open a little wider. The barest hit of salt on the tip of his tongue makes it twitch. He wants so bad to bite at the pad of Adam's thumb, suck on it and watch Adam's eyes go dark, and his will power is being sorely fucking tested here.

When Adam says, "Give me a kiss," Tommy's knees almost go out from under him. He makes some sort of noise that means _oh hell fuck yes_ and drops down to one elbow, fingers buried in the still-damp, sleep-warm hair at Adam's nape. He bumps Adam's mouth open with his own, playing at kisses just to give Adam a taste of his own medicine. He's got a good handle on this thing they're doing, on Adam too, but the one thing he's never going to be able to pull off is telling Adam no and actually fucking meaning it. It tastes like mint and strawberries when he slides his tongue into Adam's mouth, toothpaste and lipgloss, and then just warm wet heat. Adam moves lazily beneath him, chin tilting up for more. Tommy gives it to him, kisses him deeper, longer, his lungs starting to ache because he can't breathe through how much he wants to give Adam every single little fucking thing he asks for.

And then Adam goes and says, "You want to fuck me," their lips still touching, and it's not a question, not an invitation, either. Tommy groans, lust a sucker punch straight to the nuts, and bites at his mouth, really wishing he could figure out a way to never stop kissing Adam, ever, not even for a second.

Fingers close tight around his throat. The strength goes out of every last one of his muscles on a shuddering gasp, his eyes slipping shut, and no matter how hard he fucking tries, he can't get them open again. Not until Adam says, "Tommy, Tommy, look at me," and then it'd be a fucking miracle if he could keep them closed. "I could do this when you're in me," Adam says, almost like it's nothing at all, like he couldn't fucking _kill_ Tommy with words like a bullet to the brain. "Let you fuck me until you can't really breathe at all."

"Too late," Tommy says, and it's not, it honestly isn't, but holy fuck is it getting there fast. "I just, I don't fucking _care_. I waited, okay? I waited and waited and fuck, Adam, _please_." He's all of a heartbeat away from begging for real. He really and truly just doesn't give a shit anymore, as long as Adam gives him _something_.

Adam smiles up at him, but even while Tommy's thinking it, he knows that's not the right word for it. It's too slow, the kind of thing people are really talking about when they start in on heaven and hell, too dark, too promising. Something sinful and fallen that makes Tommy ache on the inside, makes him want so badly he can taste it sharp and sweet on his tongue.

He falls back easily onto his haunches when Adam pushes up. His hands flit from Adam's thighs to shoulders, needing to hold on but too worked up to manage it. It's so fucking crazy. Adam hasn't even touched him yet and he's ready to go off like a fucking rocket. He even tries to help when Adam starts stripping him down, because yes, that's an awesome idea right there, but he fumbles, gets in the way, and he so did not whine when Adam laughed at him. He fucking didn't.

Pushing him down longways across the bed, Adam says, "You wonder why I do this to you," not even remotely like a question. "You feel everything, baby, you feel it so deep. When you get like this," and he leaves it hanging, runs a hand up the inside of Tommy's bare thigh, breath hissing in between his teeth when Tommy's legs fall wide open. "I can fucking _see_ it."

"S'not all you're seeing," Tommy says, because holy fucking shit, if this gets any more intense he might actually go into cardiac arrest and that is so not the shit he wants on his tombstone.

Adam gives him another one of those smiles and crawls on up between his legs, palms skidding up his arms to pin them above his head. Tommy twists against it just a little, testing, teasing, a hitch in his breath and heartbeat both when Adam's grip tightens. He's small, not weak, but Adam's got the bulk he lacks, the leverage he gave up. The only place he's going is where Adam wants to put him. He chokes back a desperate moan, says instead, "C'mon. C'mon, c'mon, come the fuck on, son of a _bitch_."

Adam says, "Behave," and lets go, rolling up onto one knee, foot braced on the floor, to shuck the cottony pyjama bottoms he'd flaked out in.

Huffing out a breath, Tommy fucking behaves. He sure as hell doesn't want to, especially once there's all that bare freckled skin to taste, Adam's fucking dick right there, hard and perfect, and Adam really wouldn't have any _honest_ complaints if he decided to say screw being good in favour of sucking on that instead. Tommy's never met a guy who'd turn down a mouth on his dick, and Adam fucking loves it. Goes crazy for it, like Tommy's some sort of cocksucking savant even when it's the sloppiest blow in the history of oral sex.

"Up here, pretty boy," Adam says, fingers on his jaw to open his mouth for a slow dirty tonguefucking. And Tommy is so into that. So very into it that he totally misses everything else that's going on until Adam lets out a sharp hot puff of breath. He blinks his eyes back into focus, follows the long line of Adam's arm down and then he's choking on the dirtiest fucking curse he can come up with because _Adam is up there fucking fingering himself_.

Then it's, "Fuck, _fuck_ , Adam, Jesusfuck, _oh my god_ ," in a shaking rush. He is so fucking turned on right now he might actually seriously lose it. He can't stop staring at Adam's face, the tiny crinkles near his eyes, the way his lips curl back baring gritted teeth, the shine of sweat on his throat. "I'm gonna die."

"Best to go out happy," Adam says, like he wouldn't be fucking devastated if he accidentally whacked Tommy for real, and Tommy almost bites through his motherfucking tongue when Adam slicks him up. Whatever noise that was that came flying out of Tommy's mouth makes Adam pause, up on his knees and ready to sink right down. "Gonna make it?"

"No," Tommy blurts, "maybe, I don't even fucking know, holy shit." He gulps down air, lets it trickle out slowly through his noise. It's not that he's a bad fuck, okay? He's perfectly capable of going the distance here. A little warning that Adam was gonna get all up on his dick might've been nice. Maybe a cockring or two. Still above his head, right where Adam left them, his hands twitch in a knot of blankets. "'Kay. M'good."

Eyebrow cocked, Adam settles the tip of Tommy's dick at his hole and okay, Tommy lied, he's a fucking lying liar who lies. He is so not good. He's going to blow his load right the fuck now in an awesome, really terrible, horrible way. His toes dig into the mattress so hard they cramp up, and normally that would drive him fucking insane but he's got other things on his mind right now, like how fucking hot Adam is on the inside, slick and gritty all at once and tight, so fucking tight. Then he clicks in on the way Adam's moving, fucking back onto Tommy's cock with sweet lazy rolls of his hips, sinuous and easy, cock and balls dragging over Tommy's belly, and Tommy grates out, cheeks burning, "Gonna come, gonna fucking come."

"No you're not," Adam says, rough, wrecked, and his hands close over Tommy's arms right above the elbow, dig in hard, and fuck, Tommy kinda sorta really fucking hopes there're twin bruises there tomorrow. "You're gonna fuck me, Tommy Joe. Gonna do it so sweet, gonna do exactly what I tell you, baby. Come on, give me a little of what you got."

"Fuck," Tommy says, planting his heels. He makes the mistake of looking down and that first thrust goes from smooth to shaky. He gulps down another lungful of air and almost fucks it up the second time around when Adam rocks back to meet him. It is fucking insane how this feels, like he's already high and still has the junkie jitters. He wants to grab onto Adam's hips, feel how he moves, fucking loves and hates and _loves_ that he can't, not until Adam wants him to.

"That's it," Adam says, grip tightening for a second, crystal fucking clear order to stay put, before his hands drag down over Tommy's chest, a hard scratch of nails that stops Tommy's breath cold. "Show me how bad you want it. Gonna suck me off after, or are you gonna get on your belly, ask me to fuck you while I'm still wet?"

Tommy can't even get a grunt past the pileup in his throat. He tries, he really fucking tries, because knowing his goddamn luck, Adam'll make him stop until he manages an answer, but it's so not going to happen. He is seriously not this shitty a lay, and he'd fucking _prove_ it if Adam would let him just think for a goddamn minute.

Another thing which is so very much not happening. The second he manages even the _suggestion_ of a rhythm, Adam takes over, riding him so smooth and easy he's lucky his brains haven't exploded. He writhes under Adam, fucking dying to get his hands on Adam's cock, make him go as crazy as he feels. There's nothing clogging up his throat anymore, it's all pouring out harsh and filthy, desperate, and Adam's hands snap to his shoulders, pin him down for real as the orgasm coiled up tight in his belly punches all the air straight out of his lungs.

As soon as he's got the breath for it, and even though he's all shaky and stupidly weak with aftershocks, he starts shoving at Adam, saying, "Roll over, c'mon, fuck, I wanna, I gotta." Which okay, not the most articulate he's ever been in his life, but this is not the time to prize articulation over action. Adam's not so steady when he crawls off and drops to the side, and Tommy's going to really think about that later, really roll it over in his head and put a meaning to it. Right this second he's on a mission, a very simple, very important mission involving his mouth and Adam's cock in it.

He spreads his hands out over Adam's hips, takes too much too fast and ends up gagging. Adam's fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling tight, too tight maybe but it feels good, great, fucking incredible. He goes again, cutting Adam's breathless attempt at an apology short, and stubbornly fights his body's natural reaction to jamming something so far down his throat. He is going to do this shit and he is going to do it right the fuck _now_.

Adam says something dumb, like, "Easy," or, "Careful," maybe even something really crazy like, "You don't have to," and Tommy drowns it out with a determined groan. He pulls off for just a second, sucking down air in an attempt to stretch his lungs out--like that's the freakin' problem here--and licks up the side of Adam's cock. His hand around the base is sticky with precome and spit, and he licks the tang of salt sweat from his lips. As ready as he's ever going to be, he pulls against the hold Adam has on his hair and goes for the third time's the charm.

And it fucking is. The head of Adam's cock hits the back of his throat and he can feel it wedge in, the burn and the thrill of panic when it cuts off his air, the bigger, better thrill of Adam's coarse shout. He works to swallow, manages it once out of about three tries and then he's choking for real, lungs heaving and vision spotted at the corners. He drops his forehead against Adam's hip, air searing his throat as he gulps down great big mouthfuls of it. Adam's talking but he can't hear it through the rush of blood in his head. He totally wants to do that again, as soon as he can fucking move.

Adam's fingers graze his cheek. He turns his head to press into it, chasing after them with his mouth as they slide further away. Which is not the right direction at all, and seriously uncool, at least until he realises Adam's got them wrapped tight around his cock, jacking off. He licks at Adam's knuckles, ruins his strokes entirely by sliding his tongue between Adam's fingers, but he's so not hearing any complaints as he levers himself up, skims his lips across the head, tongues at the slit. He's barely got the taste fresh in his mouth when Adam's other hand skims up over his throat, fingers hooking behind his teeth to make him open up more. Everything's a blur from there, adrenaline thrill in his blood making his heart stutter, the short, choppy sound of Adam's breaths filling his head. He jerks back in surprise when Adam's come hits his tongue. He's still not used to that and kinda happy about it, kinda hoping it stays that way for awhile yet, something to remind him how new it all is even though it feels so comfy, so right all the time. Closing his eyes, he lets Adam take care of that whole aiming thing, waiting until Adam's cock grazes his lips before closing them. He pushes Adam's come up against the roof of his mouth before swallowing because seriously, it's not often at all that doesn't end up somewhere else entirely.

When he opens his eyes again, Adam is staring at him with this total gobsmacked look on his face. He cuddles back down, cheek pillowed on Adam's belly, pretty content to let Adam's brain be the one chugging along for once. Sleep's nibbling at him by the time there's a peep from Adam, and even then it's not much more than fingers feathering through his hair, lifting it and letting it fall again to gently graze Adam's bare skin.

"Feels good," Adam says, one side of his mouth quirked up.

"I know," Tommy says, wallowing in his smug. "Makes you crazy when I blow you."

Adam says, "Crazier," with a slight hitch, like just saying it is a threat to his sanity. "So. That was incredible."

Tommy props his chin up in his hand. "And you just gotta talk about it."

"Fuck yeah," Adam says, eyes going wide. "You were, I don't even know what the fuck you were."

"Horny," Tommy says helpfully, ready to settle back in for a nap, but Adam starts scooting down closer for a long-haul cuddle.

"You really did, huh."

It takes Tommy's post-coital brain a minute to link that one up. So not his fault he's at his best during the fucking, not after. It's genetic or something. "Told you I did. You said wait, you fucker."

Adam's eyes go as bright as house lights full up. "You know I'm gonna do it again now, especially if this is what I get out of it."

Tommy buries his face in Adam's shoulder and groans. It's his own fucking fault. The last god damn thing Adam needs is encouragement. "Fine," he grumbles, "but next time you're fucking taking me with you, asshole."

Both of Adam's arms loop tight around Tommy's shoulders. That so means yes.


End file.
